


particle drift

by ninemoons42



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Attraction, Gen, Oblivious!Charles, Unrequited Love, smitten!Erik
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-02
Updated: 2012-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-04 17:32:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42





	particle drift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nekosmuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nekosmuse/gifts).



title: particle drift  
author: [](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**ninemoons42**](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/)  
word count: approx. 700  
fandom: X-Men: First Class [movieverse]  
characters: Charles Xavier, Erik Lehnsherr  
rating: PG  
notes: After several people on Tumblr talked about the X-Men: First Class Erik being so very smitten with Charles, I put this little thing together. Dedicated to [nekosmuse](http://nekosmuse.tumblr.com). Cut text from the Beatles and the best and simplest and most straightforward love song ever written.

  
Maybe it starts when Erik opens his eyes to the shadow of the escaping _Caspartina_ , and to bright blue eyes and a voice calling out his name, telling him that he had to live and that he was among allies.

Maybe it starts when they’re out of the water and he can take in the details of the man who jumped in to save him, shivering and soaked to the bone, grandfather cardigan clinging wet and bulky and no protection against the cold at all. Shaking hands offering him a blanket, trembling mouth offering him a lopsided but sincere smile.

The one thing Erik Lehnsherr knows is that when he realizes he’s on dry land, literally and metaphorically, when he realizes that he’s _safe_ , he knows that he owes Charles Xavier his life and possibly his sanity, and every time he thinks of this there’s a tight warmth in his chest and he doesn’t want to let it go.

He’s good at knowing when people are telling him the truth.

Even so, he isn’t prepared for Charles’s fervent response, all his understanding and all his sincerity in just one word.

[“What do you know about me?”

 _“Everything.”_ ]

Now he’s standing inside a middling hotel room, they’re off and away on some kind of recruiting mission, and he’s supposed to keep his mind on the goal except that Charles had gone straight through and past the beds and now he’s standing on the balcony and Erik doesn’t even know what he’s looking at. What kind of scenery could possibly deserve that bright smile, that way Charles is looking up into a haze of weak sunshine?

Erik finds himself lost in that contemplation, wanting to reach out, and this must be the ultimate proof that Charles is staying well away from his thoughts because he must be thinking so loudly - and yet the man is beautifully oblivious, is running his hands through that ridiculous dark hair of his, too long, just being damnably himself and magnificent besides.

Or if he’s hearing Erik he’s also being polite, doing nothing about it, and here there is a stray thought of _I wish he would_ \- and the only thing that happens is Charles saying, “Could you be so kind as to hand me the telephone, please, I’m supposed to call Raven and let her know we’re all right?”

Erik is floating the heavy handset over to him before he can blink.

He wonders at his focus, the ease with which the metal had responded to him, and he knows in his bones that it all loops back to Charles.

The impression is not helped by the days and nights of driving together, of traveling, and sometimes there are long stretches of silence and sometimes they have to talk all over each other because the ideas are too good to let go of, and Charles doesn’t stop being himself: he’s kind, he’s gracious, he’s polite, he talks a hundred miles per hour on his pet subjects and listens like an entire hushed theater audience when Erik’s talking.

Erik has never met someone like him before, and he’s pretty sure it shows, and he’s even more baffled in his dreams because it’s not just about wanting to fuck him.

He wants to do something about the way Charles sleeps curled in tight as though for warmth or for protection - he wants to be the blankets and pillows Charles cocoons himself in. He wants to be the person who hands him his tea - splash of milk, three sugars - and his toast - buttered lightly, peach preserves when they’re available and a thin coating of orange marmalade when they’re not. He wants to understand why Charles smiles whenever he extracts a certain battered book bound in gray leather from his bag.

He wants to watch sunlight and rain and snow and stars fall on him, and he can’t say a word, and he hoards every kind look and every quiet word until he can almost forget Schmidt - Shaw - and there is nothing beneath his skin but the pull, the drift, the crash, into and toward Charles Xavier.  



End file.
